Smoking
I took up smoking recently. I look at them sometimes, as they’re burning between my fingers, and wonder what the hell I’m doing, and then I take it to my mouth and breathe in deep. I’m not a full-fledged addict, but I’m getting there, and I’m okay with that.
I have a friend that tells me that lots of people smoke because they’d gotten addicted when they were young, or whatever, but she does it because she likes it. I didn’t, but I understand that now. It’s like having a friend with you out in the cold of the night. For three minutes, you are in control, and the world seems to make sense. And the world hardly ever makes sense.
When I was out there tonight, pulling a match (because that’s so much stinking cooler.) across the side of the box and lighting my cig, I got to thinking about how insane life is. My whole life I’ve been waiting for that time when I would figure it all out. I was absolutely certain that the answers were out there and that life would, all at once, fall into place and make perfect sense. And then, at that beautiful point, I would be able to begin to share that answer with the world. It’s not going to happen.
The smoke curled up around my fingers and up, out of sight. I was cold, but it was actually nice to be cold, because it was a feeling, and I let it ride. I thought about all of the plans I’d had about how life was going to be, and how life was nothing like that now. How it seemed that everything I ever tried to do failed miserably and that it seemed quite probable that nothing would change. And I understood the numbness I felt sometimes and why I so loved those last few drags, the warmth coming up through the filter, even though they tasted like shit. It was a little like comfort.
I realized why people stay in shitty relationships and run back to abuse, singing that it would be different this time. I realized why people cut themselves and live on one-night stands and cheeseburgers. Why we give our innocence away and betray and steal and, hell, even smoke. It’s a little like comfort. It’s a little like being alive. Because we can’t get the real thing, we take the next best. And I took a long drag.
I’m a Christian. And I believe there’s a God in the middle of this mess, and that there is actual sense to be made out of it all, and that one day we’ll either get our answers, or just not need them. But, that’s of little actual comfort sometimes. Maybe I’m just not as spiritual as I should be, or whatever, but life hurts like hell sometimes, and doesn’t make a whole lot of fucking sense.
But, he asks me to trust him. So I do. What’s the alternative, really? Atheism? Good luck with that. I endure life, which has its moments, mind you, and pray that there’s a method to the madness, trusting that there is. Even though it seems like things should be different, and that life should make a whole heck of a lot more sense, I trust him. God help me. I trust him.
-Chad
5:40:07 PM 
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